A Sacred Confidence
'Duke Radford was very ill. For a week he hovered between life and
death, and Mrs. Burton's skill was taxed to the uttermost. There
was no doctor within at least a hundred miles. One of the fishers
at Seal Cove had set the broken collar bone, the work being very
well done too, although the man was only an amateur in the art of
bone-setting. But it was not the broken bone, nor any of his
bruises and abrasions, which made 'Duke Radford's peril during that
black week of care and anxiety. He was ill in himself, so ill in
fact that Mrs. Burton lost heart, declaring that her father's
constitution had broken up, and that half a dozen doctors could not
pull him through if his time had come.
Katherine would not share this gloomy view, and was always hoping
against hope. If only the waters had been open, a doctor might
have been procured from somewhere; but in winter time, when the
small lakes and many of the lesser rivers were all frozen, nothing
in the way of outside help was available, and the dwellers in
remote places had to depend upon their own skill, making up in
nursing what was lacking in medicine.
By the time the second Sunday came, the sick man showed signs of
mending. Mrs. Burton grew hopeful again, while Katherine was
nearly beside herself with joy. It had been a fearfully hard week
for them all, though the neighbours had been as kind as possible.
Stee Jenkin's wife came up from Seal Cove one day, and, after doing
as much work as she could find to do, carried the twins off with
her to her little house at the Cove, which was a great relief to
Mrs. Burton and Katherine. Mrs. M'Kree was ill herself, so could
do no more than send a kindly message; but even that was better
than nothing, for sympathy is one of the sweetest things on earth
when one is in trouble.
Sunday was a blessed relief to them at the end of their troubled
week. Finding her father so much better, Mrs. Burton betook
herself to bed at noon for the first real untroubled rest she had
enjoyed for many days. The boys were stretched in luxurious
idleness before the glowing fire in the kitchen, and Katherine was
in charge of the sickroom. She was half-asleep herself; the place
was so warm and her father lay in such a restful quiet. It had
been so terrible all the week because no rest had seemed possible
to him. But since last night his symptoms had changed, and now he
lay quietly dozing, only rousing to take nourishment. Presently he
stirred uneasily, as if the old restlessness were coming back, then
asked in a feeble tone:
"Are you there, Nellie?"
"Nellie has gone to lie down, Father; but I will call her if you
want her," Katherine said, coming forward to where the sick man
could see her.
"No, I don't want her; it is you I want to talk to, only I didn't
know whether she was here," he replied.
"I don't think you ought to talk at all," she said, in a doubtful
tone. "Drink this broth, dear, and then try to sleep again."
"I will drink the broth, but I don't want to go to sleep again just
yet," he said, in a stronger voice.
Katherine fed him as if he were a baby, and indeed he was almost as
weak as an infant. But she did not encourage his talking, although
she could not prevent it, as he seemed so much better.
"There is something that has been troubling me a great deal, and I
want to tell you about it," he said. "I could not speak of it to
anyone else, and I don't want you to do so either. But it will be
a certain comfort to me that you know it, for you are strong and
more fitted for bearing burdens than Nellie, who has had more than
her share of sorrow already."
Katherine shivered. There was a longing in her heart to tell her
father that she wanted no more burdens, that life was already so
hard as to make her shrink from any more responsibility. But,
looking at him as he lay there in his weakness, she could not say
such words as these.
"What is it you want to tell me, Father?" she asked. Her voice was
tender and caressing; he should never have to guess how she shrank
from the confidence he wanted to give her, because her instinct
told her that it was something which she would not want to hear.
"Do you remember the day we went up to Astor M'Kree's with the last
mail which came through before the waters closed?" he said
abruptly, and again Katherine shivered, knowing for a certainty
that her father's trouble was proving too big for him alone.
"Yes, I remember," she replied very softly,
"That was a black day for me, for it brought dead things to life in
a way that I had thought impossible. I used to know that Oswald
Selincourt who has bought the fishing fleet."
"That one? Are you sure it is the same?" she asked in surprise.
"The name is uncommon, still it is within the bounds of probability
that there might be two, and you said the one you knew was a poor
man."
"I fancy there is no manner of doubt that it is the same," 'Duke
Radford said slowly. "The day we went to Fort Garry, M'Crawney
told me he had a letter from Mr. Selincourt too, in which the new
owner said he was a Bristol man, and that he had known what it was
to be poor, so did not mean to risk money on ventures he had no
chance of controlling, and that was why he was coming here next
summer to boss the fleet."
"Poor Father!" Katherine murmured softly. "Ah, you may well say
poor!" he answered bitterly. "If it were not for you, the boys,
poor Nellie, and her babies, I'd just be thankful to know that I'd
never get up from this bed again, for I don't feel that I have
courage to face life now."
"Father, you must not talk nor think like that, indeed you must
not!" she exclaimed, in an imploring tone. "Think how we need you
and how we love you. Think, too, how desolate we should be without
you."
"That is what I tell myself every hour in the twenty-four, and I
shall make as brave a fight for it as I can for your sakes," he
said in a regretful tone, as if his family cares were holding him
to life against his will. Then he went on: "Oswald Selincourt and
I were in the same business house in Bristol years ago, and I did
him a great wrong."
Katherine had a sensation that was almost akin to what she would
have felt if someone had dashed a bucket of ice-cold water in her
face. But she did not move nor cry out, did not even gasp, only
sat still with the dumb horror of it all filling her heart, until
she felt as if she would never feel happy again. Her father had
always seemed to her the noblest of men, and she had revered him
so, because he always stood for what was right and true. Then some
instinct told her that he must be suffering horribly too, and
because she could not speak she slid her warm fingers into his
trembling hand and held it fast.
"Thank you, dear, I felt I could trust you," he said simply, and
the words braced Katherine for bearing what had to come, more than
anything else could have done.
"What is it you want me to know?" she asked, for he had lain for
some minutes without speech, as if the task he had set himself was
harder than he could perform.
"I wanted to tell you about the wrong I did Selincourt," the sick
man said in a reluctant tone. He had brought himself to the point
of confiding in his daughter, yet even now he shrank from it as if
fearing to lower himself in her eyes. "We were clerks in one
business house, only Selincourt was above me, and taking a much
higher salary; but if anything happened to move him, I knew that
his desk would be offered to me. I was poor, but he in a sense was
poorer still, because he had an invalid father and young sisters
dependent on him."
"Father, surely there is no need to tell me of this dead-and-buried
action, unless you wish it, for the telling can do no good now,"
burst out Katherine, who could not bear to see the pain in her
father's face.
"A wrong is never dead and buried while the man lives who did it,"
'Duke Radford answered with a wan smile, "for his conscience has a
trick of rounding on him when he least expects it, and then there
is trouble, at least that is how it has been with me. One day a
complaint was lodged with our business chiefs that one of the
clerks had been gambling, was an habitual gambler in fact. I was
not the one, and I was not suspected, but I knew very well which
one it was; but when suspicion fell on Selincourt, I just kept
silent. For some reason he could not clear himself, was dismissed,
and I was promoted. But the promotion did me little good; the firm
went bankrupt in the following year, and I was adrift myself."
"What became of Selincourt?" asked Katherine, and was instantly
sorry she had spoken, because of the pain in her father's face.
"I don't know. I never heard of him from the day he left the
counting-house until Astor M'Kree read his name from that letter,
but I thought of him a good bit. It is hard enough for a man to do
well with an unblemished character, but to be thrown out of a
situation branded as a gambler is ruin, and nothing short of it."
"What became of the other man--the one who was a gambler?" asked
Katherine.
"I don't know. He remained with the firm until the crash came. I
fancy Selincourt's fate made a great impression on him, for I never
heard of his gambling after Selincourt's dismissal," answered her
father.
"How strange that he could not clear himself! Do you expect he had
been gambling really, as well as the other one?" Katherine said
quickly.
"I am sure he had not," replied 'Duke Radford. "He was not that
sort at all. But the thing that bowled him over was that he was
known to have money in his possession, a considerable amount, for
which he could not or would not account."
"Still, I don't see that you were so much to blame," said Katherine
soothingly. "If the man was accused and could not clear himself,
then plainly there was something wrong somewhere: and after all you
simply held your tongue; it was not as if you had stolen anything,
letting the blame fall on him, or had falsely accused him in any
way."
"Just the arguments with which I comforted myself when I kept
silent and profited by the downfall of a man who was blameless,"
'Duke Radford replied. "But though there may be a sort of truth in
them, it is not real truth, and I have been paying the price ever
since of that guilty silence of mine."
"Father, why do you tell me all this now?" cried Katherine
protestingly. Never in her heart would she have quite so much
admiration for her father again, and the knowledge brought keen
suffering with it.
He drew a long breath that was like a sobbing sigh; only too well
did he understand what he had done, but he had counted the cost,
and was not going to shirk the consequences.
"Because I've got the feeling that you will be able in some way to
make the wrong right. I don't know how, and I can't see what can
be done, only somehow the conviction has grown to a certainty in my
mind, and now I can rest about it," he replied slowly.
"Has this trouble made you so restless and ill?" she asked,
thinking that his burden of mental suffering had grown beyond his
powers of endurance since he had been keeping his bed.
"I suppose it may have helped. I have suffered horribly, but since
I made up my mind to tell you, things have seemed easier, and I
have been able to sleep," he answered with a heavy sigh.
"Will you tell me just what you want me to do, if--if----?" she
began, but broke off abruptly, for she could not put in words the
dread which had come into her heart that her father might be dead
before the summer, when Mr. Selincourt was expected in Keewatin.
"If I am alive and well when the summer comes there will be no need
for you to do anything; I shall be able to face the consequences of
my own wrong-doing. But if not, I leave it to you to do the very
best you can. You can't make up for all the man may have had to
suffer, but at least you can tell him that I was sorry."
Katherine shuddered. It was bad enough to be compelled to hear
that her father had been guilty of such meanness as to keep silent,
in order that he might profit by the downfall of an innocent man;
but when, in addition to this, she was expected to tell that man of
how her father had acted, and, as it were, ask pardon for it, the
ordeal appeared beyond her strength to face. Not a word of this
did she say, however, for it was quite plain to her that the
invalid had already over-excited himself, and she rather dreaded
what Mrs. Burton would say presently.
"You must go to sleep, Father, and we will talk about this again
another day," she said firmly.
"No, we will not speak of it again, for it is not a pleasant
subject for discussion," he replied. "Only tell me that you will
take my burden and bear it for me as best you can, if I am not able
to bear it myself, and then I can be at peace."
Katherine bent over him, gathering his feeble hands in a close
clasp, and the steadfast light in her eyes was beautiful to see.
"Dear Father, I will do my very best to make the wrong as right as
it can be made. Now try to rest, and get better as fast as you can."
He smiled, shook his head a little at her talk of getting better
speedily, then to her great relief he shut his eyes and went to
sleep. The burden had fallen from him upon her, and it had fallen
so heavily that just at first she was stunned by the blow. There
was no sound in the quiet room except the regular breathing of the
sleeper. Outside the brief winter day merged into the long
northern night; the stars came out, shining with frosty brilliancy,
but Katherine sat by the bedside, and never once did her gaze
wander to the window. Mrs. Burton came in presently, bringing a
lamp, and scolding softly because the room was in darkness. But
when she saw how quietly her father was sleeping, her gentle
complaining turned into murmurs of pleased satisfaction.
"Really, Katherine, you are a better nurse than I thought. I was
so afraid of the restlessness coming on again, as it has done about
this time every day since his accident. But now he is sleeping most
beautifully, so I feel sure he has taken a turn, and that we shall
pull him through."
"Yes," said Katherine, as she followed Mrs. Burton into the store
to look after the fire. "I think he will get better now," but her
tone was so dull and lacking in spirit that her sister faced round
upon her in quick consternation.
"What is the matter? Do you feel ill? Why, you are white as chalk,
and you look as if you had seen a ghost!"
"I don't think there are any ghosts to see in this part of the
world," Katherine replied, with a brave attempt at a laugh,
"unless, indeed, the unquiet spirit of some Hudson's Bay Company's
agent, done to death by treacherous Indians, haunts these shores."
"Or some poor sealer caught in the ice and frozen to death,"
murmured Mrs. Burton, with a sobbing catch in her breath.
Katherine, who was putting wood in the stove, turned suddenly,
catching her sister in a warm, impulsive hug. "There are no ghosts
nor unquiet spirits among those brave men who meet death while
doing their daily work, darling!" she said earnestly. "But I fancy
some of those old H.B.C. agents were fearful rogues, and well
deserved the fate they met at the hands of the outraged red men."
"Perhaps so; I don't know. But I don't like seeing you look so
pale, Katherine. Come and have your tea, and I will send one of
the boys to look after Father for a little while."
Katherine followed her sister from the store into the kitchen,
wondering as she went if tea, however hot, would have the power to
drive away the creeping chill at her heart. Miles went off to take
charge of the sickroom, while Phil set tea, chattering all the time
concerning the gossip of the store which had come to his ears
during the last few days.
"The men are saying that most likely, if Mr. Selincourt is such a
rich man, he will be sure to have a steamer run up through the
Strait two or three times during the summer with provisions, and so
it will be bad for Father and the store," he said, carefully
setting the cracked cup for Miles, although by rights it was his
own turn to have it.
"What nonsense people talk!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, with a
scornful laugh. "Mr. Selincourt will have his hands full with
managing the fishing fleet, and if he is so unwise as to turn
general trader, I dare say we can find some way of underselling him
or enticing his customers away."
Katherine put down her cup of tea with an unsteady movement which
spilled some of the contents over the tablecloth. Here was a view
of the situation which she had not thought to be compelled to face.
If Mr. Selincourt did anything which took their trade away, and
left them face to face with starvation, would it be their duty to
sit down meekly and bear such an injustice, without attempting a
blow in self-defence, and all because of that evil from the past
which, although so long buried, had suddenly come to life again?
"Katherine, how frightened you look! You surely are not worrying
about a bit of store gossip, which has probably not the slightest
foundation in fact?" Mrs. Burton said in remonstrance.
"It is of no use to worry about anything so remote as Mr.
Selincourt and the fishing fleet," Katherine answered languidly.
"But I am so tired that bed for a few hours seems the most
desirable thing on earth."
"Then go, dear, and get a good rest," said her sister.
But, although Katherine lay down and covered herself with the
bedclothes, sleep was long in coming, while the burden she had
taken made her heart heavy as lead.